


Picture Perfect

by Jo (jmathieson)



Series: Tangents and Intersections ~ Kink Bingo 2013 [75]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: kink_bingo, Consensual Non-Consent, Control Issues, Dancing, Established Relationship, Hand Feeding, Jossed, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Photography, Situational Humiliation, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint agrees to do a fashion photo shoot against his will, at Phil's command.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo Round Six (2013) ~ Situational Humiliation
> 
> _Story #75 - I'm three-quarters of the way done!_

It had taken days of talking, negotiating, and planning. What had started out as a request for Clint to participate in some PR for the Avengers had turned into the most carefully negotiated, boundary-pushing scene that Clint and Phil had ever considered. 

Clint was going to be doing something he disliked. Something that made him uncomfortable. Something that made him feel humiliated. He was going to be doing it because Phil wanted him to. Because Phil had asked him to.

And Clint had agreed, on the condition that Phil would take complete control of him for the duration. Clint wanted to find out what it would be like to surrender completely to Phil. To do as he was told, and to not have any choice in the matter, to not have the option of saying 'No,' or calling safeword.

It was still a game, of course. There were no consequences. Clint could turn around and walk away from the situation at any point, and Phil might be a little disappointed in him, but he wouldn't blame him, punish him, or stop loving him. Phil would be giving the orders, telling Clint what to do, and Clint would be choosing to follow them, as if he had no choice. The restraints they were using were all in their minds. That didn't make it any less serious, or any less real.

They were both a little nervous as they showered and dressed and got ready to meet the car Phil had arranged to take them to and from the fashion magazine photo shoot. Clint was dealing with it by cracking increasingly bad jokes, and Phil was dealing with it by checking and re-checking all his plans and preparations. Clint smiled. Organized, on-top-of-it-all Agent Coulson was exactly who he wanted to see right now. Exactly who he needed to be in control.

They stopped at the door.

"I'm sorry, Clint, but I have to ask one last time. You are absolutely sure you want to do this?"

"I am absolutely sure I want to give you complete control over me. Yes."

"Come here." Phil pulled him into a hug and held him tightly for a moment, and then leaned back far enough to kiss him, hard. Then Phil let him go.

"OK. As of right now, until we get back here after the photo shoot, I'm in charge. I'll tell you what to do, and I'll expect you to do it, no questions asked, without hesitation. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Clint hadn't known he was going to say it until he did. 

Phil's eyes widened a little, and he blinked, slowly, once, and then gave that sharp little nod that Clint had seen hundreds of times in the field, the one that meant that his instructions had been received, and he was confident that they had been understood, and would be carried out competently.

In the spacious back of the limo, Clint leaned into the wide leather seat. There was an feeling of excited anticipation building in his chest. It has started when he'd called Phil 'sir' for the first time since they'd known each other. Clint's refusal to call his superiors (except Director Fury) at SHIELD 'sir' had been one of the things that marked him as a loose cannon when he first started. 

Clint had had enough of being someone else's whipping boy in his life, and wasn't going to put up with it at SHIELD, especially when the regs said he didn't have to 'sir' anyone. Why give someone he didn't even know that respect, when no one had ever respected him? Phil had never minded. Phil had always respected him, and had earned his trust. Clint had thought about starting to call Phil 'sir' years ago, but that was right around the time he realized he had romantic feelings for his handler (and it occurred to him now that those two things were more strongly linked than he wanted to examine), so he had never actually done it. 

Now... now was different. Now was a specific time with a specific set of rules that were different from the way they were together normally. Now was the time to try out 'sir' and see how it felt. In their extensive discussions about what they were going to be doing today, they had both very carefully avoided using the terms 'dominance' and 'submission'. Neither of them were ready to go there yet, if at all... Clint needed to find out, first, if this was something he wanted. If it was something that turned him on the way he thought it might. 

They arrived at the studio. Phil led the way, asked for the magazine's editor by name at the front desk, and nodded at Clint to shake hands with her when she came out and introduced herself as 'Ms. Carlisle' and gushed over Clint. 

"If you'll just - " She tried to usher Clint down a corridor, but Phil stopped her with a polite hand,

"I'll be staying with him the entire time. I'm his," there was the tiniest pause, "handler."

"I see, well, that's fine, of course, if you'll both please follow me, I'll introduce you to our photographer and our hair and make-up people."

Phil saw Clint's face twitch at the mention of make-up, and so as they walked down the corridor, he took Clint's elbow and squeezed.

The studio itself was a big airy loft with high ceilings and rough brick interior walls. There were sofas and chairs and lights and a sound system and other equipment Clint didn't recognize as he glanced around, instinctively checking sightlines and escape routes.

The editor clapped her hands and people came scurrying over. A rough circle formed, and the editor gushed some more,

"This, of course, is Clint 'Hawkeye' Barton, one of The Avengers." Clint nodded at the faces around him. "And this is... I'm so sorry."

"Senior Agent Phil Coulson, with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"Of course, Agent Coulson. This is Jeffrey, senior photographer, Julie, his assistant, Frank, our PA, and Lizzie who will be doing Clint's hair and make-up. The wardrobe people will be here shortly."

"Specialist Barton. Or, Mr. Barton, if that's easier for you," Phil corrected with such a genial smile that the editor looked taken aback only for a moment.

"Of course. If you'll show Mr. Barton where to sit, please Lizzie. Agent Coulson, can I offer you a drink, there's a very comfortable - " she tried to usher Phil over towards a sofa on the other side of the room.

"I'll just stand here, thank you," said Phil, positioning himself a foot to Clint's left, and turning away from Ms. Carlisle to make eye contact with him in the make-up mirror. He could see the relief in Clint's eyes. 

Getting made up was every bit as horrible as Clint had expected it to be. Lizzie was nice enough, but the way she poked at his face put him on edge. He was not used to letting a stranger wave pointy things near his eyes. The make-up was itchy and smelled terrible, and it took forever. There seemed to be no end to all the layers of stuff she wanted to put on his face and his lips and... his eyes. Every time she asked him to close his eyes, he made sure he was looking straight at Phil as he did it. And Phil was always there, looking straight back at him when he opened them again. Phil was there, at his shoulder. At his back. In control. Where he belonged. Clint wasn't sure how he felt about that last part, but he knew it was true. It was the only thing keeping him grounded as Lizzie dragged a brush across his eyelid for the sixth time.

Lizzie finished fussing with his face and smiled apologetically, "Um, is it OK if I..." she indicated his shirt buttons, "I need to do your neck."

In the mirror, Phil gave him a tiny nod, and so Clint swallowed and said, "It's OK. I'll... how many do you need me to undo?"

"The top three, please. That should be enough for now, anyway."

The 'for now' wasn't lost on either Clint or Phil. Clint had never, ever been shy about his body, but he was distinctly uncomfortable about being put on display. When they had originally discussed the magazine's request, Clint had refused, saying to Phil, "Do I need to have a 'good reason' to feel the way I do about it? To say 'No, I don't want to do that, it makes me uncomfortable?' I can make up some sort of childhood trauma to explain it if you want. I've got plenty of childhood trauma to pick from." 

And Phil was sure that there was some truth in that. That some of Clint's feeling of humiliation about this photo shoot came from his time in the circus, the time when the only utility he had to anybody, the only reason he was worth a sheltered place to sleep and some food was that he could be put on display.

Lizzie urged Clint to tip his head back so that she could apply more make-up to his neck. He did, and tried to force himself to relax, to unclench his hands from the arms of the chair with his neck exposed in a way that he only ever did for Phil. Phil who loved to scrape his teeth along it and bite at the soft spot under his jaw. Clint shifted his eyes to the left, and he could see Phil, looking down at him, with a tiny smile on his face.

'I asked for this,' Clint reminded himself. 'I wanted to know what it would be like. To obey. To be controlled.'

Phil could see the tension in Clint's body and had a good idea what was causing it. He had seen every single tiny flinch when the make-up artist waved a brush near Clint's eyes. She was very careful, and professional, but Phil knew damn well that this was the closest a non-combatant stranger had been to Clint's face in years. Now Phil wished there was something more he could do to reassure, to comfort. To show or tell Clint how pleased he was with how well Clint was doing. For now all he could do was be there, at Clint's back, taking care of him. Where he belonged.

Hair was next and it was mercifully quick after the make-up: Lizzie covered her hands in goop and ran them through Clint's hair, scrunching it up into some bizarre configuration that was undoubtedly very stylish, and then asking Clint to shield his eyes while she sprayed more stuff on top. Clint was slowly unclenching his white knuckles from the arms of the chair to follow her instruction, but Phil was already there, the edge of his hand barely brushing Clint's forehead, above his eyebrows. Clint felt the heat of Phil's skin more than the actual touch, but the tiny bit of contact made Clint gasp in a breath and he forced himself to breathe out long and slow. Phil was there.

"That's great, thanks." Lizzie turned to put the spray can back on the make-up table, and Phil cupped Clint's cheek very lightly for the briefest instant before stepping back out of the way.

"If you'll please come over here Mr. Barton," said Frank the PA, "we're going to start with some test shots in your own clothes to check on the light levels and so on while we're waiting for the wardrobe to arrive."

Clint followed Frank over to where there was a large pale blue backdrop set up, and Phil fell into step beside him, staying close.

"Right, if you'll just stand in the middle, there, where that piece of yellow tape is on the floor, and look this way..." the photographer said as he brought the bulky camera up to his eye. Phil stood two feet to his left, trying to stay out of his way, but where Clint could see him watching. 

Clint stood, arms hanging loose at his sides. Looking straight ahead, but glancing over at Phil every few seconds. 

"If you could look at the camera please, Mr. Barton," the photographer said, taking a couple of steps closer. Clint looked straight into the lens of the camera and counted to ten in his head, and then let himself glance back at Phil. 

"OK, can we try for a less... murderous facial expression, please. These aren't mug shots. And again, please try to look at the camera."

'Fuck, this is so fucking stupid,' Clint was saying to himself in his head when he heard Phil,

"Barton, you will follow the photographer's instructions to the best of your ability, is that clear?"

For a second, Clint was shocked. That was Phil's 'talking to dim-witted junior agents' tone. Phil never talked to him like that. Agent Coulson hadn't talked to him like that in years, not since the last time he screwed up really badly on a mission... Clint glanced over at Phil. There was something hard in his eyes, something commanding. Something that both thrilled and frightened Clint to see. He swallowed.

"Yes, sir," he said, and looked straight into the camera and tried to grin. Phil was there. Phil was watching his every move. He was obeying Phil. Phil would take care of him. 

There was a bang and a clatter and Clint was so keyed up that he nearly dropped into a defensive crouch when two large clothes racks were wheeled noisily through the doors by a couple of young women.

"Oh, good. The wardrobe is here." Ms. Carlisle clattered over on her high heels and spent a couple of minutes examining the two racks. Clint wondered how he could possibly wear all those different clothes in the four hours that they were scheduled to be here. He already hated the thought of running one minute over time, and hoped Phil would plead some other pressing meeting or something if that happened.

"Right girls, you know what to do. We're going to start with the formalwear," the editor said, turning to Clint and Phil who had moved to stand beside him when it was obvious that the shooting had stopped for now, "and then move on to the suits. After that we'll do some casual shots as well, and we'll finish up with the shirtless poses."

Clint's stomach churned at the idea of being told to pose shirtless. He wasn't the least bit shy about his body, on the contrary he knew he looked good and was proud of it. But being posed. Like a doll, or a prize poodle? Being told to flex this way or twist that way? He swallowed. The editor seemed to be expecting some sort of response from him, and he said, "Uh... yeah, I guess," the words stumbling over each other as they fell out of his mouth.

"Specialist Barton will do whatever you need him to, Ms. Carlisle," Phil said with an easy smile. Phil put his hand on the small of Clint's back. It looked like a casual gesture, but Phil rubbed his thumb along Clint's spine for a moment, and let his fingertips dip under the waistband of Clint's jeans for just an instant. The silent message was perfectly clear to Clint, 'You're mine.'

The editor started rattling off orders: "Frank, go get a rack for his clothes and a screen for him to change behind. Tina, you handle the props. Go open the champagne and get the glasses. What colours of cummerbund have we got with that one?"

Frank scurried off and returned with a clothes-horse and a wide Japanese lacquered screen, both on wheels. He positioned the screen a few feet from the brick wall at the side of the studio. He set the clothes-horse behind it, and wheeled the first rack of clothes in front of it, so that items could easily be handed around or over the screen. Phil did his best to stay close by Clint's side during the shuffle, and both of them tried to stay out of the way until things were sorted out. 

"Here, Mr. Barton, please try these on," said the young woman whose name Clint hadn't caught, handing him a pair of pants. Trusting that there would eventually be a shirt to go with them, he stepped behind the screen and started to strip. 

"Try this shirt, please." A hand poked around the side of the screen holding a shirt and Clint pulled it on and buttoned it up, then tucked the tails in and zipped and buttoned the pants. They hadn't given him shoes, and he didn't think he should put his own back on. He stepped out from behind the screen, glancing over at where Phil stood close by for reassurance.

"Hmm... not bad." Ms. Carlisle advanced on him and walked around behind him. He kept his eyes on Phil and didn't flinch. She tucked the back of his shirt into his pants. He kept his eyes on Phil's eyes, and didn't elbow her in the guts. 

"Julie, pass me the red cummerbund, Alicia do his tie." Ms. Carlisle started strapping the cummerbund around his waist. The wardrobe woman who had turned out to be Alicia came towards him holding a red rope stretched between her hands and Clint opened and closed his hands spasmodically by his thighs, and there was panic in his eyes as he looked at Phil.

"Excuse me, please ladies. Sorry, very sorry for the interruption." Phil had insinuated himself between Clint and Alicia and was somehow managing to block Ms. Carlisle with his elbow and be extremely polite all at the same time. 

"I just need a word with Specialist Barton before we continue." Phil had one arm around him now and was backing them both behind the screen.

Phil put his hand on the back of Clint's neck, holding him tightly, and his lips next to Clint's ear. Already, Clint's breath came easier, some of his tension seeping away just from Phil's touch and his nearness.

"What's wrong?" Phil whispered.

"It's fine. I can handle it." It wasn't a lie, not anymore. Not when he knew Phil was there, watching, seeing. Seeing how good he was being. Seeing him do what he was told. 

"It's not fine. Tell me." It was an order. Then, more softly. "Tell me what's wrong so that I can fix it."

"I... if you could maybe ask them to stop touching me quite so much."

"Good. You're doing well, Clint. I can see how hard this is for you, and you're doing very, very well." He squeezed the back of Clint's neck, kneading the muscles.

"Thank you, sir." 

With one last squeeze, Phil released him and turned around.

"Very sorry, entirely my fault," Phil said. "I should have made it more clear that everyone needed to read the briefing package we sent over on Specialist Barton's background. It explains, you see, that before he became an Avenger, Specialist Barton was one of SHIELD's most highly trained and effective operatives. He's been trying very hard to keep his training and instincts in check in order to work with you, but we're both very concerned that he might accidentally hurt someone who touches him unexpectedly. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to let me help him with his clothing."

Phil had turned the charm and reasonableness up to eleven. Alicia and Tina and even Ms. Carlisle were smiling back at him.

"Well, of course. He is an Avenger after all..." Phil could see the editor working out story angles that emphasized how dangerous and deadly Clint was. It would make a nice counterpoint to Steve's All-American Charm and Tony's Eccentric Billionaire. 

"Miss?" Phil held his hand out for the red bowtie.

"You know how to..." Phil's smile made her trail off.

Phil turned his back to the crowd, and Ms. Carlisle was already marshalling them to their next tasks. He skillfully tied the red bow tie around Clint's neck, snug, but not too tight. He ran his hand down the front of the shirt, once, and Clint could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric. 

"Turn," Phil said, and Clint did, so that Phil could adjust the cummerbund. "Jacket?" Phil asked over his shoulder, and one was handed to him. "Arms," he said to Clint and Clint obediently put his arms back and let Phil slip the tuxedo jacket on. "Turn."

Clint turned.

Phil took a step back, looked him up and down, and smiled. "Maybe I should tell them red's not really your colour," he said softly.

"They probably don't have purple."

"Probably not. Shame. You look good. Go." Phil stepped out of the way and Clint stepped towards the photo backdrop. Ms. Carlisle spotted him and hurried over.

"Not bad, not bad at all. How's the fit?"

"The arms and shoulders are tight - " Clint started to say. 

"Sorry, dear, I wasn't talking to you," said Ms. Carlisle. She turned to Alicia.

"Not bad. We'll get a better idea with the other suit pants."

"Get him over here, we need to start shooting."

And they ushered Clint under the lights and he tried to do what they asked, turning this way and that, raising his chin, and pulling his shoulders back according to the instructions that were called out to him by Jeff, Julie, and Ms. Carlisle. 

"Tina, where's that glass of Champagne?"

Tina appeared with two full glasses and handed one to Clint.

"Feel free to drink it," Ms. Carlisle said, and then muttered, "Anything to loosen you up a bit."

Clint caught Phil's eye and Phil gave him a tiny shake of the head. Clint gave him a tiny nod in return. He wouldn't have wanted to anyway. Not while they were doing this. 

"The red's really not working for me," said Jeff the photographer, and Alicia came running over with a black tie and cummerbund and handed them to Phil.

"If you wouldn't mind?"

Phil walked in front of the camera and undid Clint's tie and tossed it over his own shoulder. He kept his eyes on Clint's as he threaded the black one in its place and then glanced down to tie it. He put his arms under the tuxedo jacket, and ran his thumbs along Clint's spine, once, before unfastening the red cummerbund and swapping it for the black one. He gave Clint one last warm smile before stepping back out of the way.

"You did that fast," Tina said with an admiring tone in her voice, "Do you have experience as a dresser?"

"We used to do a lot of undercover work, before The Avengers," Phil answered, handing Alicia back the red tie and cummerbund, and not taking his eyes off Clint, who was trying (Phil could see he was really trying) to keep his eyes on the camera and not look like he was at the cocktail party from hell.

"OK, scrap the tux. Black seems to work. Let's try an all black outfit."

Clint came back over to the clothes rack and stepped behind the screen, Phil followed him, handing first the jacket, then the tie and cummerbund, then the shirt, then pants, to whichever of the wardrobe people were standing beyond the screen. They were replaced with a pair of thin, tight black suit trousers, and Clint struggled to get them on.

"What's wrong?"

"They're kinda tight."

"Let's see?" called a voice from the other side of the screen, and Clint stepped around. "Hmm... hmmmm.... no, no that's just a little too risqué I think. Alicia find another pair."

Clint stepped back, Phil took an appreciative look and then turned smoldering eyes on Clint. 

"Here try these."

The next pair fit better, and Phil flipped up his shirt collar to tie his tie while he buttoned and tucked and zipped. A jacket was handed over and Phil helped him with it. Clint went out and had his picture taken a few dozen more times. 

"I'm sorry," said Ms. Carlisle from the sidelines, I know you're doing your best and relaxing in this... circumstance doesn't come naturally to you, but is there anything we can do to help you loosen up a little? Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

"Sorry... Sorry, no. Er... No I don't what a drink." Clint looked down, miserably. He was trying, he really was. For Phil, he was trying, but he couldn't relax. Especially not while wearing a suit jacket. This time he didn't glance over at Phil, not wanting to meet his eyes and see disappointment in them.

He was sent to change again, and this time, when Phil flipped his collar up to tie the (silver-grey) tie around his neck, he said, "Turn." Clint did, and felt Phil press up against his back, touching him from knees to shoulders. An unmistakable hard bulge dug into his butt.

"That's for you," Phil whispered while he tied Clint's tie, "Watching you, watching you try, watching you do your best at something you hate. For me. Because I told you to." Phil gave a little thrust with his hips, grinding his hard-on into Clint's ass for a second, and then stepped back. 

It helped. Clint was a little looser now that he knew he wasn't failing Phil. That Phil knew he was trying his best. That Phil was turned on watching him, seeing him obey as best he could.

Frank the PA appeared at Phil's elbow. "Is there anything I can get you, a drink, coffee, water, anything?"

"Water will be fine, oh, and Gatorade, if you have any."

"We might."

"Blue, if you have it."

Phil kept his eyes on Clint throughout the conversation. Clint was putting his hands on his hips and tipping his head back and twisting towards the camera. It was almost painful for Phil to watch Clint, who always moved with such ease and grace, so stiff and uncomfortable.

"Let's try the armchair, Frank!" said Ms. Carlisle, and Frank shoved a bottle each of water and blue Gatorade into Phil's hands, and then scurried off again.

"Alicia the blue suit. And then after that the white one. Tina, help Frank with the chair."

Clint had stepped back behind the screen and was starting to unbutton the shirt.

"Here, drink this first," Phil said, handing him the bottle of Gatorade.

"I'm OK, thanks," Clint said.

"Barton." Phil's voice was hard, and Clint looked up, startled. "Drink."

Clint's eyes went a little wide. Phil was reminding him that he was in charge of everything. Completely in control. The way Clint wanted it.

"Yes, sir," Clint said softly and took the bottle, uncapped it, and drank. Phil unbuttoned the shirt while he did, letting the backs of his fingers brush the skin of Clint's chest lightly. Clint didn't know if Phil meant it as a reward for good behaviour, but the light touches felt heavenly to Clint. 

Pieces of yet another suit were being passed around the screen. Clint quickly stripped and Phil helped him dress in a bright blue shirt and suit. When he stepped out from behind the screen, there was a large brown leather armchair in front of the backdrop.

"Go sit, please, Mr. Barton," said Ms. Carlisle, and Clint obediently perched gingerly on the chair.

The photographer snapped a couple of shots, and said,

"OK, good, but just relax. Slouch a little, as if you were at home in front of the TV."

'I can't,' Clint wanted to scream, 'because I'd never be watching TV in this goddamn blue monkey suit.' Instead he looked at Phil, slouched in the chair, and tried, again, futily, to relax.

"Barton, imagine you're wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and Tony's forcing Cap to watch an episode of Next Gen."

"I...um... would be sitting differently."

"Go ahead, please!" said Jeff. "Sit however you want, as long as you're comfortable!"

Clint looked at Phil again, and then twisted sideways and threw one knee over the arm of the chair.

"Much better," said Jeff and started to snap enthusiastically.

"Blue shirt, white suit," said Ms. Carlisle. Clint climbed out of the chair, went through the now-familiar routine of changing into the next suit, and stepped back in front of the camera.

"Start with the same pose as before, please."

Clint draped himself back into the chair.

"Good. Very good. Now, how about we try a facial expression that isn't utter boredom."

Clint cringed inwardly. Being told to 'look happy' or 'look serious' was one of the things he had dreaded about posing. He looked at the camera and tried to grin, very conscious that it was probably coming out as a horrible grimace.

"Dear, if you could just try to - " Ms. Carlisle started to cajole, and Phil mercifully interrupted her.

"Give me just a minute, please," Phil said, and stepped in front of the camera. "Don't move," he said as Clint started to straighten up. He put his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in close, crowding Clint with his body. Phil's groin was by Clint's hand where he was resting it on his knee, and Phil pushed his hard dick into the back of Clint's hand, and whispered into his ear,

"Do you have any idea how much I want to fuck you right now? How much I want to bend you over the back of this chair and pound your ass? Think about that. That's not a suggestion or a request, Clint. I'm telling you to look into that camera and think about me fucking you."

Phil backed up a pace, stared hard into Clint's eyes for a minute, and went back to his place a couple of feet to the left of the photographer. Clint followed him with his eyes, then shifted in the chair.

'I'm doing what you told me Phil,' he thought as he fixed his eyes on the round black lens of the camera and thought about the slow, hot slide of Phil's dick into his ass. He breathed out a long shallow breath, the way he did when Phil bottomed out and pushed his hips hard up against Clint's ass. 

He heard the camera click and saw the photographer crouching in front of him, taking shot after shot. He let his eyes go a little unfocussed and thought about Phil's teeth on the back of his neck while Phil's fingers gripped his hips hard enough to bruise and he pounded into him again and again.

"Excellent. Very nice. OK everyone, we'll take a 15-minute break and do the casual shots after. Tina, swap the racks over. Frank, show Agent Coulson and Mr. Barton to the Green Room."

Clint was in a little bit of a daze as he stripped off the white suit and put his own jeans and shirt back on, very grateful that he was going to get a few minutes alone with Phil. He needed that, needed it more than he thought possible.

Frank led them out of the studio and down a hallway.

"Here you are, sorry it's small, but there's some sandwiches and things there for you and the fridge is fully stocked and the washroom is through that door if you need it. I'll be just down the hall if there's anything I can do."

"Thank you." Phil closed the door behind Frank as he left. Clint heard the snick of a lock. He wanted nothing more than for Phil to wrap his arms around him and hold him, and tell him he was doing well.

Phil turned, his back to the door, and looked at Clint, who was hovering uncertainly in the few feet of carpeted floor between the sofa and the table with food on it. Phil was quiet, his eyes searching Clint's for something.

"Kneel," Phil said quietly.

Clint was going down to his knees before he realized he was doing it. Some of the tension left his body. Phil was in charge. Phil was in control. Phil loved him and would take care of him. All Clint had to do was obey.

Phil moved across the small room in two easy strides and stood in front of him.

"Hands behind your back." Phil's voice was soft. His orders were firm, but gentle. Clint put his hands behind his back and tipped his head up to look at Phil. 

"I want to kiss you, but I don't want to mess up your face too much. I don't want you to have to sit in that make-up chair for a second longer than absolutely necessary. If I let myself touch you the way I want to, I'll tear your clothes off and leave bite marks all over your skin. I would love to fuck you, but I didn't think to bring lube, and I don't want to improvise, under the circumstances. So." Phil unbuckled his belt and Clint sucked in a breath.

"Don't get any make-up on my pants." Phil said, pushing them down to his knees, and easing his underwear over his erection and down.

"Open."

Clint opened his mouth, already salivating at the thought of having Phil's dick in it.

'ThankYouThankYouThankYouPhilSirPhilThankYou.' Clint's brain chanted as Phil slowly pushed his dick into Clint's open mouth, and then wrapped his hand around the back of Clint's neck and gripped hard.

Clint sucked and swallowed. He worked his tongue and opened his throat. He took Phil to the root and dragged in air though his nose. He buried his nose in Phil's pubic hair and swallowed around his cock, again, and again, while Phil's strong hand on the back of his neck held him and grounded him. 

It didn't take long. Phil had been achingly hard for the last hour, and watching Clint's eyes after his last set of instructions in the studio, Phil had been awfully close to coming in his pants. 

"Clint." Phil breathed out the warning and Clint took a breath and then started to suck harder, pulling Phil's orgasm out of him. Phil came with a very quiet moan, and then put his other hand on Clint's shoulder to steady himself through the aftershocks.

Clint made a needy whining sound in his throat when Phil pulled out. 

"Thank you," Phil said, his voice rough, and then "Stay there." He put himself away and then put his hand back on the back of Clint's neck and squeezed. "Are you OK Clint? Tell me the truth."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Don't move."

Phil turned away and busied himself at the food table for a minute. Clint heard the small fridge open and close, and liquid being poured into a cup. Phil balanced a plate on the arm of the sofa, and then reached out to put his arm around Clint's shoulders and draw him closer as he sat down on the small sofa. Since he hadn't been told to stand, Clint shuffled closer to Phil on his knees, which got him an approving nod. 

"Sit." Phil put a little pressure on Clint's shoulder and he sank down into his heels. Phil nodded again and put his hand on the back of Clint's neck again.

"I hate that I can't touch you properly, so this is going to have to do for now," he said, gripping hard again. "Keep your hands behind your back," he said as he extended the cup of juice with a straw in it towards Clint's mouth. "Drink this."

Clint didn't really want to wash the taste of Phil out of his mouth, but he obeyed, putting his lips to the straw and drinking until the cup was empty.

"Good." Phil put the cup aside and picked up the plate and balanced it on his knees. He picked up a small cracker topped with a piece of cheese and held it to Clint's lips.

"I don't need - "

"Clint." It was a gentle reminder. 

"Sorry sir."

"That's OK. I know I'm asking a lot of you, but you want to do this for me, don't you?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Eat."

Clint let Phil feed him the cracker. Clint's eyes slipped closed while he chewed. He wanted... he wanted to be at home, with Phil. He wanted to be able to surrender to this feeling of calm that was tugging at him as he knelt by Phil's side, Phil's hand on the back of his neck, grounding him, controlling him, possessing him. He couldn't though, not here. Not when they only had another few minutes alone together and would have to go back out under the lights and face the gaze of the camera again soon. Too soon.

"Thank you sir," he said, trying to put everything he didn't have words to say into those three.

Phil fed him another cracker.

"Look at me." Clint looked up into Phil's eyes. "Tell me the truth. Are you OK?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you want to continue this?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK. Let's go. Get up."

Lizzie was waiting for him at the make-up chair and fixed his face. Alicia and Tina and Ms. Carlisle were waiting by the clothes rack and Jeff and Julie were standing by the backdrop, which had been changed to a grey one.

Clint took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped behind the screen to change.

The clothes were a little more comfortable, and there were fewer jackets. One of the pairs of jeans was actually kinda nice. He stood in front of the camera. He turned. He looked this way and that. He followed instructions and tried not to glance over at Phil too often. Phil still helped him through each costume change, the light little brushes of Phil's fingers on his sides, his chest, the insides of his arms and the small of his back left tingling trails that he imagined he could still feel when he stepped back in front of the camera.

"Leave this shirt unbuttoned," came the instruction from the other side of the screen, and Clint looked up at Phil.

"Turn," Phil said. Clint turned. "Arms." Clint put his arms back, and Phil slipped the shirt on. "Turn." Clint did. Phil adjusted the collar of the shirt, and the way the tails hung down. Then he stepped in close. He put his hands on Clint's chest. Rubbed the pads of his thumbs across Clint's nipples. Whispered into Clint's ear.

"Look sexy for me." And stepped back, and out of the way.

Clint walked out from behind the screen and over to the backdrop. He tried to ignore the lights, the camera, Jeff, Julie, and all the others. He tried to focus on Phil's voice. Phil's command, 'Look sexy for me.'

He faced the camera. He put his hands on his hips and he threw his chest out. He thought about Phil rubbing his nipples. They still tingled. He thought about Phil looking at him while he followed Jeff's and Julie's instructions to 'put one arm behind your head,' and 'turn 90 degrees, good now face the camera.' He thought about having Phil's dick in his mouth while he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and put his arms behind his back. He thought about Phil's teeth on his throat as he tipped his head back. 

"Good. Very good, in fact. Drop the shirt, please."

He dropped the shirt. He took a breath. He needed... he glanced at Phil. Phil held his eyes, and nodded. Clint smiled, and turned back to the camera, still smiling.

"Gorgeous." Clint heard the camera clicking rapidly.

"Mr. Barton, you're doing so well. I was wondering if there's any way we could get some more active shots. Do you do any kind of martial art, or..."

"He dances," said Phil.

Clint just had the chance to see Ms. Carlisle's eyes lighting up in delight as he turned to Phil, feeling betrayed. Dancing was something he did for himself. He didn't want to...

"If you want him to, though, you'll need to give him some pants he can move in."

"Oh, I'm sure we can find something, Alicia, what do we have with a high spandex content?"

Phil jerked his head at Clint in his 'Follow me' gesture, and Clint followed him behind the screen. Phil stepped in close and grabbed one of Clint's hands, then pressed it to his own groin.

"Feel that. That's from watching your every move out there, and knowing that it's all for me." Phil thrust his half-hard dick into Clint's hand. "You'll dance for me now, Clint. You'll do it because I want you to. Because I'm telling you to."

"Yes sir." He had asked for this. Phil was in charge. He wanted this. Phil had control. He was Phil's to command.

He stood passively while Phil undid his pants and slipped them down. He kicked them off, and Phil picked them up and folded over the top of the screen.

"Here, try these." 

Phil handed the pants to Clint, "Put them on."

They fit well enough, and Phil stepped out of the way so that Clint could do a couple of lunges to check that they would move with him. 

"Ready?" Phil asked. Clint just nodded.

Phil stepped in close one more time, put his lips so close to Clint's ear that he could feel them moving when Phil spoke. 

"When we get home, I'm going to take you apart."

"Yes sir. Yes please."

"Dance for me."

Clint stepped out from behind the screen and Tina gave a low appreciative whistle.

"What sort of music do you need?" Frank asked from over by the sound system. "We have just about anything."

"Club music. Anything with a good fast beat." Clint answered, moving over towards the backdrop. "Um, how much space can I use?"

"As much as you want, just be sure not to knock over the lighting stands."

"He won't touch the stands, don't worry," said Phil with confidence.

Frank put a CD into the player and a loud club beat filled the studio. Phil watched with a pleased smile as Clint started to move, first swaying his entire body like a marionette on strings, and then adding the complex pounding footwork that let him internalize the beat. Once Clint had those two elements in place, he started to dance in earnest, twirling and jumping, tumbling and snapping his arms in a whirlwind of motion and grace. He only kept it up for a few minutes, it was just for the camera, and for Phil, but he'd done his best. Done what Phil had asked of him. He slowed and stopped, looking straight at Phil, who nodded.

"That was fantastic, Mr. Barton, thank you. The shots are going to be great." Jeff was smiling with real enthusiasm for the first time of the day.

Tina appeared and handed him a towel, "There's cold cream on it, it'll take the makeup off your face."

"Thanks," said Clint and started to scrub at his face. The sweat from dancing under the studio lights was already making the make-up even more uncomfortable than it had already been.

"If that's everything?" Phil was asking Ms. Carlisle.

Clint was stripping out of the pants and putting his own clothes back on. They were done. They were done. They were done. 

There were 'Thank-yous' and smiles and handshakes all around and finally, Phil was able to usher them out of the studio and into the elevator. 

"Are you OK?"

"Yes sir."

"You don't hate me for that?"

"No sir."

"Good. I was afraid I had pushed you too far."

"I'm yours, sir."

Phil didn't know what to say to that, so he put his hand on the back of Clint's neck and gripped while the elevator descended. Clint sank into the touch, wanting to sink into Phil's arms. Wanting to sink into Phil. Soon. They would be home soon, and then he could let himself go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks always to my excellent editors t! and Shazrolane.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: [Queen of Wands](http://jmathieson-fic.tumblr.com/)


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